


like a balm / for weeping wounds

by narrativefoiltrope



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: F/M, Injury Recovery, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Tenderness, soft!mason is here but he's not happy about it (i am though) (so is winter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:00:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27329191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narrativefoiltrope/pseuds/narrativefoiltrope
Summary: detective winter collins takes care of mason's injuries after he prevents her from being kidnapped by rogue supernaturals. lots of softness and tenderness.
Relationships: Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles), Female Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 34





	like a balm / for weeping wounds

Winter tried to bite down the rising feeling of guilt, bitter in the back of her throat, as she hurried over to Mason’s room in the warehouse. He had been badly injured while stopping a group of rogue supernaturals—demons and imps with altered Agency tech, more sophisticated than what the Trappers had in the spring—from kidnapping her. Agency medics whisked him away a half hour earlier and she hadn’t been allowed to see him yet. 

She was tired of waiting. 

Stopping at the top of one of the long hallways leading to the unit’s living quarters, she yanked off her heavy (and loud) boots. She didn’t want to assault his senses further in his battered state when nurses let her into his room. And they would, right? She would ask very nicely—no, she would _tell_ them to let her in; that was her…Mason, and she was the reason he was— 

Winter pushed the thought out of her head and steeled herself as she continued walking on sock-clad feet towards his door. She drew herself up to her full height, back ramrod straight, shoulders square in an attempt to look imposing. She could do this: She could ask— _tell_ —the nurses to let her see him and when she saw him, she would not fall to pieces in a display of tears that would make both of them uncomfortable. _She could do this._

Upon arriving outside Mason’s room, Winter found that she didn’t need to worry about medical staff barring her entry: A nurse with long pointed ears was making a hurried exit. Familiar low growls emanated from behind the door and a jolt of relief shot through Winter at the sound. She almost ran into the nurse, socks offering no traction on the smooth floor, but righted herself at the last second as she breathlessly asked, “How is he?” 

The nurse sighed and shook his head. “Well enough to fight me on everything I tried to do, but poorly enough to need looking after.” He sceptically gave her a quick once over, taking in her dishevelled state, before asking, “Should I assume that’s what you’re here to do?” She nodded. 

A few minutes and a list of strict instructions later, the nurse left. Winter approached Mason’s door and murmured, “I know you know I’m here. Can you please let me in?” 

A pause; one heartbeat, two. Then Mason jerked the door open. Instead of standing in the doorway and crowding her like he usually did, though, he skulked off to the far end of the room, back turned towards her. 

She walked over to him slowly, unable to see much at all in the dim light of his room, but she could still see how bruised and bloodied he was. Her heart jumped into her throat, which she knew he felt because his head sharply swivelled around to look at her. 

“I’m fine,” he snarled, but he sounded more tired than she could remember hearing. 

Winter didn’t say anything, only stepped closer to study him. She first noticed where his henley was ripped, exposing burned and bleeding flesh. His face was in worse shape. She placed one finger under his chin and, finding no resistance, turned his face this way and that to see the extent of the damage. There were some smaller cuts that had started to heal, but burn marks and gashes that hadn’t, charred skin and dark red blood mingling together to create a macabre scene over the freckled planes of his face. Her heart lurched and before she realised what she was doing, she moved her hand from under his chin to ghost featherlight over a particularly gruesome cut on his cheek. Mason stiffened but allowed it. 

“Let me clean you up,” she whispered, not wanting to disturb the quiet that had settled between them. 

Mason eyed her for a moment before nodding towards the bathroom. “There are washcloths in there.” 

She returned a few moments later with a lukewarm washcloth and a dry towel. Mason had moved to sit on the edge of his bed and Winter gingerly lowered herself down next to him. She gently and methodically washed the cuts and gashes on his face, working in silence with the exception of quick hushed apologies whenever he winced or hissed. She paused after any indication of pain, but he gritted his teeth and urged her on each time. 

When she finished cleaning his face, she hesitantly reached for the hem of his shirt. Flicking her eyes up to meet his, she asked, “May I?”

“I didn’t think the first time you got me out of my clothes would go like this, sweetheart, but I’m not complaining,” Mason said. His smirk turned into a grimace as he slowly reached his arms up to allow Winter to slip his shirt off. 

The damage was much worse than she had thought, blood hidden before by the black of the shirt. His ribs were covered in blood from four gouges given by the talons of two imps pulling on him from either side; deep purple bruises mottled his shoulders from where he landed _hard_ after they dropped him; a particularly worrying scorch mark covered half of his chest. Winter’s voice strangled in her throat as she took everything in, but she didn’t let her eyes linger longer than necessary before she returned to cleaning the wounds. With each patch of freckles that reappeared after she washed the blood away, she felt less panicked. At each reveal, Winter allowed herself to trace small patterns between those freckles on the clean skin, fingers barely brushing him—but whether that was for his benefit or hers, she couldn’t say.

After what could have been a few minutes or an hour, she finished and stood back up to look at him. “Much better,” she said with a nod. 

He raised a brow. “Not into the whole bloodied warrior look then?”

Winter smiled. “I always think you’re handsome, but no, I don’t like seeing you hurt.” She paused and her smile faltered. “Especially not when it’s my fault.” The guilt that she had so far successfully tamped down returned, snaking up her throat and pricking the backs of her eyes. Feeling heat rise in her cheeks and ears, she started to turn away from him to clean up the washcloths, but before she could, he grabbed her wrist and pressed down on her pulse.

“Hey,” he said gruffly. Winter looked at him, acutely aware of the tears gathering in her eyes. Still holding her wrist, he stood up and closed the space between them. There was a ferocity in his eyes that she hadn’t seen before: It wasn’t hard or angry, but it pierced through her, fixing her to the floor. She could move if she wanted to, though she definitely didn’t want to as she took stock of all the places they touched: chest to chest, hip to hip, knee to knee, his hand on her wrist. “What those assholes did is not your fault.”

Winter held his gaze for as long as she could, long enough for the lingering guilt to quiet, and she nodded. Feeling overwhelmed and slightly dizzy, she cleared her throat and took a step back. “You should rest. I have strict orders from the nurse to get you into bed.”

She heard the implication as soon as it left her mouth and felt her eyes widen and face burn. _Oh no._

Mason smirked. “All you had to do was ask, sweetheart.” He sat back down on the bed and looked at her expectantly, clearly enjoying how much she was writhing in embarrassment. Her hands shot up to cover her face _(oh no oh no oh no)_ and she once again felt his hand on her wrist as he tried to tug it away from her face. When she resisted against it, Mason pulled harder…and she toppled forward onto the bed next to him. 

“Oh my god are you okay? Did I hurt you?” Winter asked as she righted herself, sitting up on the bed. She was suddenly very _(very)_ aware of the fact that she was in his bed with him (and he was shirtless no less!) and she blushed furiously for an entirely different reason. 

The grin Mason gave her was positively wolfish as he said, “I’m doing _very_ well.” 

Winter shook her head, about to gently admonish him when she finally caught sight of how tired he was: Dark shadows gathered under his eyes and he looked unusually ashen, making the freckles and bruising stand out on his face. 

“You need to sleep. Please,” she said quietly. She felt, once again, an overwhelming urge to reach out to him.

Winter extended a hand slowly, a question; the back of her hand caressed his cheekbone and then her fingers were gently running through his hair. 

“Is this okay?” she breathed. 

He stared at her, hard, and she began to pull her hand away. Mason offered a low rumble, which she recognised as begrudging acceptance, before he closed his eyes and shifted slightly closer to her. She tenderly pushed down on an uninjured area on his shoulder and he let her guide him so he was laying down. When he was settled, she too laid down and mirrored his position, facing him, and resumed combing her fingers through his hair, now splayed out on the pillow. It was surprisingly soft, and she found herself getting lost in the repetitive soothing motion. She took this opportunity, his eyes closed, unguarded, and her face so near his, to memorise his features—though if she was honest with herself, she had already committed every detail to memory months ago. 

Winter continued to stroke his hair as his breathing evened and the tension softened around his closed eyes. When she thought he had fallen asleep, she placed a light chaste kiss on his jaw and quietly got up from the bed. As she made her way to the door, Mason’s voice stopped her in her tracks.

“Are you only ever going to kiss me after I’ve had the shit beaten out of me?” So he had been awake for that.

Winter looked at him over her shoulder and smiled. “We can talk about it after you’ve slept.” She left without giving him time to respond, gently closing the door behind her.

**Author's Note:**

> this came from a cliche trope request on tumblr for the prompt: "taking care of the other when sick or injured."  
> come yell about twc with me there (same username).
> 
> the title is lines from the poem "softness" by ciel sainte-marie.


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